


Paris, This Time of Year

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Smut, Bodily Fluids, Past Torture, Reader-Insert, Smut, Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:48:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29673750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: August is about to embark on the greatest mission of his life. It could also be his biggest mistake.
Relationships: August Walker/You
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Paris, This Time of Year

This is August fucking Walker and he’s not going to die because if he dies it’s over, all the work will go unfinished, 

(You’ll be alone)

everything he’s ever thrown himself against will have won, and not just whatever terrible mission he’s been on but the other things too: the deep dark underground that ripped him from the comfort of a life as the agency’s golden boy, the aches and pains that linger, the stares that somehow he’s leveraged from pity to awe to fear. 

And when he comes back this time he’s in tatters; how could he be otherwise? The body recovers, but the mind, well. It’s _August._ He’s a steel trap and if this last catastrophic fuckup has affected him he doesn’t show it unless it’s in the way his hand grips a little harder than it used to, in the way his jaw tightens with the effort of not reacting when you step too softly. 

_(It’s late. Come to bed?_

No answer. 

_What are you—_

_Soon, pet. There’s so much I have to do.)_

And when the next job comes it’s a two-person affair; you’re on his arm dressed to the nines and for once he has a suit that fits, that shows off how thick with muscle he is, how dangerous,

(How close to the edge)

how divinely, totally in control he is.

(He isn’t)

And you’re an ornament, a distraction, the long line of your spine bare beneath his guiding hand as he moves about and strikes deals with the right (wrong) sort of people, as he comes back from the edge of irrevocable ruin with grace and aplomb (he’s faking it). 

It’s going well; he moves within the dance of connections made and deepened, of cruel men vying to fuck each other before they get fucked, of 

_Hey, that’s a pretty thing you’ve got there._

_Mmm, you like?_ And there’s his hand ghosting down your throat to the curve of your breast; the scars on his fingertips are raising your nipples into hardness, into need, as you play your part as the distraction, as you smile and make sure to play it shy and sultry. _Now, let’s talk business._

It’s a trip home in a nice car that’ll be abandoned tomorrow, parts stripped of their serial numbers and the inside torched to catch the fingerprints and hair, little flakes of skin, the smears of fluid where he fingers you desperately in the passenger seat. It’s the slide of your wet thighs as you stumble up the stairs to home, and once upon a time he’d carry you in with your legs around his waist and his tongue in your throat

(Don’t ask him to, please, because he can’t. Not now, not yet, not while the scars are barely set beneath his suit, not while his power is still half illusion, half reputation. He builds his strength but slowly, mindful of the long game if not the pain)

and when you close the door behind you he’s got your hands in his at the level of your ears (stroking with scarred thumbs and his nails don’t look quite right these days but at least they’re growing back; when his cuffs shift you see the banded wounds around his wrists with the bruises still faintly visible) and his mouth is moving on you with a desperate insistence; the past still pains him and the future is uneasy but this present moment is all aching need. 

There’s ferocity burning beneath the surface and _tell me you want this._ It’s an order, sure, but it’s half a plea ( _tell me you still want me)._

_Christ, yes, want you, need you, need you in me. All those eyes on me and all I could think about was you, knowing they could never have me because all I am and was and will be— it’s all for you. All those handshakes and all the while I was thinking about your fingers on my tongue, your voice in my ear._

_Pet. (Say you’re mine again._

_Always was. Even when I thought you were lost for good._

_Say. It._

_I’m yours. I’m yours. Christ. I need, I need—)_

And August says _on the floor;_ there’s half a beat between the words and dropping to your knees where the out appears, where he hangs his hands in the air and waits to see what you will do. But you follow his words down  
_  
(Like I said)_

And he chases after; his hands ache and there’s the loss of those fine motor skills, hidden between scar tissue and nerve damage and maybe he will gain them back and maybe he won’t, so he doesn’t bother with buttons and zips. He tears, wild and desperate and wanton like the good old days and if the reason is different the effect is the same. 

It’s your elbow scraping raw against the wood, it’s him tearing your dress right down the back to get at warm skin, to get his hands under delicate lace and pull, until you’re bare to him and 

(It’s a tell, the way his fingertips shake against your flesh, the way he pauses before dipping them into your core, wet and waiting for him and _I missed this. Missed you, August.)_

it’s more tender than you thought it’d be; this is August, for fuck’s sake, this is _August fucking Walker_ and even if you don’t know the details you know he’s dangerous, you know there’s blood on his hands and something that eats at him when he can’t sleep at night. 

_(Who’s John?)_

And he has you right there on the floor, belly to the wood. It’s a long and endless press until he’s in you to the root and _Christ_ he’s thick, same as always, and the feel of him inside you calls you home. 

_(You’re deflecting._

_Hush, pet. Let me in.)_

Tender or ferocious, it doesn’t matter. You’ll take him any way that you can get him, especially now, after his long absence, especially now when he looks at you long and hard like you’ll disappear if he lets you from his sight. 

_(Who’s John Lark?)_

There’s a sound outside and he’s stilling, listening, hand over your mouth, _shh,_ as he listens and waits til he can identify what it is. Something, who the fuck knows, you didn’t hear it, 

(Could’ve been the echo of a drill in the distance, grinding metal on bone and that’s another scar he won’t talk about)

but the pose has you arched up and back, ass pressing against his hips and _oh_ his hand over your mouth is having an effect; 

(Just like the good old days when you’d warm him in his office and he’d start to tease, cupping his hand to catch your protests)

and August doesn’t miss a thing; he tightens his hand, briefly, before stroking fingers over your tongue and pressing down. 

( _If you’re in it, I’m in it. Won’t you trust me?_ )

This is the culmination of days and weeks of watching and worrying, and it all comes to a head right here on the foyer floor; this is the moment when he bows your spine taut to breaking as he comes inside. This is the press and twist of his fingers as he’s collecting his semen and your need, weight heavy on you as he leans up to feed you these fluids in an act that’s foul and somehow intimate, a _hold us safe inside you, til I can hold you safely for myself again._

This is the moment when he starts to talk, softening against your thigh; this is when you learn how deep in it he is.  
_  
I hear Paris is nice this time of year._

_Pet. You don’t know what you’re asking._

(This is going to be a disaster)  
_  
This is what will happen._

_Take me with you._

(He can’t)

He breathes against your back (he will), slowing, steadying. In all the long lines of his body he bears the tension of the coming days, the pain of the all too recent past, and this: his answer, which is 

(The worst mistake he’s ever gonna make, or else the risk with the greatest reward)

_You’ll be the death of me._


End file.
